Friday, July 12, 2013

Jolly Henry Thoreau Calls Detente

This lonely ocean that covers the parking lot: the fill air of only counted breaths spells time's word. We live in the love of our distractions.

Water pours from expressive skies on expense account population. Story files into township practice, looking thru windows at the world of weather, time, and night. Finally garden seems riled by blue, today, after days of yellow buoyancy.

In the miser field of granting wishes, soon the daytime cools. We will make ourselves astonished. A creek bends the landscape and presses rock into features of time. There was a bird in the sky, a pleasant rocket. Some will walk away rather than lose gravity's touch. Some won't.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Why Did You Scurry Off to Croatia?

The laughing people are Republicans, enjoying their thick shoes. Every earthquake in their garden sends tremours to morbid Democrats, pure tremours of pants that turn plaid in the morning. Important cheese for the verities derives from cows, merchants, and rattlesnakes. Cheese is a sign of protein, like angular doctors on holiday.

Forensic popularity is graphed in a central place. Love your active agency. Tricky winds from the vale of heroes shows the light of Sun, neither Jewish, Catholic, or Protestant Christian exactly. Light controls in language exist for everyday use.

Factions of just letters show proof of words. One dog works for the CIA and then four legs becomes sedition. Act like words, people, it is your only chance.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Capturing Animals from Elizabeth Bishop

A dawn of some time, under the verve of a thick stack of clouds that inhere in Pre-Cambrian light. This dawn shows that a mountain contains a legion of views, each proven by a word. Tracts contest and revel in the nature of the pillbox on the bluff overlooking the warrior part of the ocean, certainly D-Day was one time. Afterwards the animals ate, stern for forces of nature in a frolic of time spent with vegetables. Weeds in the yard preclude the basis of Pre-Cambrian insight. Fog spills on Poetry.

Rival gangs arduously assert programs of relation, using simple terms called dinosaurs. The biggest teeth are the winningest, tho one should never let comparisons speak of love. The world is generous, even with clouds. A spark, a detente, a cat in a chair.Wordlessness features in most declarations.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Where Are the Literal Geese that Surround the Figurative Pond?

Light shines on a language sometimes, the case of request. The tallest excuse for Ann Coulter reminds us of the delivery of carcases next week. Swooning for jury duty, the people en masse reply to emails. Emails contort the conviction of the true depth of pond. Likely, Ann Coulter's body construct (words removed) will float, until sink.

Every pond relies on someone, someone who will write poems on haystacks and figure Da Vinci into scifi stories. Later generations rely on these people to inspire sparks until haystacks will be no more. It is a curious circle, developing perplexing corners.

Ann Coulter reminds us that geese are attached to her patient reply. Indeed, her power to conceive neural platforms of dismaying matter assures her presence in the national dialogue. Strange geese she inheres filled with marvelous quaking, as if the earth itself were the earth itself. Ann Coulter is never wrong, in the sense that she is never, ever.

Surrounding the pond, then, becomes a lack of duty.

To Lunge at the Herd

The best dinosaur was a flower. It sent a child into horse lands. It repeated rhythmic phrases of sound that could be words. The dawn of something, following a night of else.

The dinosaur of light and dark swooned in the federation of conflict, drama, and pointless remarks by Republicans. The edge came off the knife, drew inference from the piety of party.

The best dinosaur rose in document, singing ages of processes, processes that could bear adjectives. Colour nurtured new, again and again. Green meant the play of light on seeing the day spin. Blue signaled the wastrel sky and sea.

Horse lands became bison lands again. We learned of plain facts, between us. We aren't retreats, always. We have accepted a mutual landing in marsh, salt marsh, the edge of everything and anything.

The sea air rises to a flower.